


Make a Mess of Me

by okapi



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 5+1 Things, Anal Sex, Bottom Mycroft Holmes, Coming In Pants, Dirty Talk, Humiliation, In Public, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Meet-Cute, Messy, Miscommunication, Oral Sex, POV Alternating, Pants, Phone Sex, Suit Kink, Top Greg Lestrade, Underwear Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-10
Updated: 2020-07-13
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:01:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25192060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okapi/pseuds/okapi
Summary: or the 5 Times Mycroft Holmes Came in his Pants and the 1 Time He Didn'tMystrade. PWP.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 51
Kudos: 178
Collections: Season of Kink





	1. The Museum

**Author's Note:**

> For my DW 2020 Season of Kink Bingo G-1 square: wet/dirty

Maybe it’s in here, thought Lestrade without any confidence whatsoever. He entered another side gallery, the seventh he’d entered so far. Each time he’d said the same thing to himself while continuing to hold the same flute of untasted fizzy pink something which he had been too polite to refuse.

No, this was definitely not what he was looking for.

This one was just a bunch of statues. Or parts of them. As far as Lestrade could tell, none of the works on the pedestals seemed to have a head, a torso, _and_ arms.

Greek? Roman? Old. Some kind of old.

Not what Lestrade was looking for at all.

The gallery was extremely quiet and almost empty.

Lestrade sighed aloud and was about to give up and go home, feeling wholly ridiculous because he’d made a genuine effort on his night off and he hadn’t even seen what he’d wanted to see.

Then one of the three patrons in the room turned.

And Lestrade stopped.

Now _there_ was a work of art worth pointlessly traipsing a couple of miles to ogle. And in the dark blue pin-stripe suit that was Lestrade’s absolute favourite!

Maybe the evening wouldn’t be a failure after all.

“Mister Holmes?”

“Detective Inspector Lestrade?”

Mycroft Holmes’s expression was, for a moment, a reflection of the surprise Lestrade felt; but in another moment, the shock was gone, and the elder Holmes’s usual mask of granite reserve was restored.

“How admirable of you to support the charities which benefit from tonight’s event.”

“Thank you. I’m lost.”

It might have been Lestrade’s imagination, but he thought that Mycroft Holmes almost smiled.

“I mean, this is nice and,” Lestrade glanced nervously at the array of statues behind Mycroft, “naked and all, but I wanted to see the exhibit on the science fiction pulp magazine covers, and I’ve been walking for hours, and I still haven’t found it.”

“Oh, the temporary exhibits are at the front.”

“The front? Where I arrived?”

“No, you arrived at the west entrance. The front is closed due to renovations to the exterior.”

Lestrade deflated. “Shit.” He stared at the drink in his hand and threw it back like a whiskey chaser. “Ugh!” he grimaced and coughed. “Christ. What are they putting in the champagne these days?”

“Raspberries, I believe,” said Mycroft ruefully. “May I?”

Lestrade gladly rid himself of the empty flute.

“I could be show you to the exhibit,” suggested Mycroft, walking towards the threshold to the gallery and passing Lestrade’s glass to a server.

“Oh, that’s be wonderful unless, uh, you’ve other plans.”

Surely, thought Lestrade, the man was on a date. If Lestrade was in a suit like that, in a place like this, he’d definitely be on a date.

“It’d be my pleasure,” said Mycroft.

Lestrade wanted no awkwardness. “But, uh, your companion?”

Mycroft blinked once. “I’m on my own.” His voice was a bit funny when he said it.

Christ, had Lestrade put his foot in it already? “Oh, sorry. I meant no offense. I don’t want to assume or presume or, you know, whatever, either way, it’s just the suit, of course. Date suite. But maybe you had a date with, uh,” Lestrade rubbed the back of his head and glanced around; his eyes rested on one particular stone figure, “that naked, headless, armless lady over there?” He frowned.

Mycroft’s lips quirked in what was definitely a smile. He cast a look at the sculpture in question and said, “I admire her, I visit her often, but we have an open relationship.”

Lestrade laughed.

“Come, let me take you where you want to go, Detective Inspector.”

Lestrade liked the sound of that!

* * *

“Oh, wow,” said Lestrade, leaning closer, studying the image of the blue tentacled creature holding the sleeping, tow-headed child. “ _Dear Devil_ , indeed,” he read a title from the cover. He added with a schoolboy grin. “That’s the stuff of nightmares.”

Mycroft nodded.

They moved together, bending to read plaques, stepping back to judge, shaking their heads, and exchanging commentary.

The last of the works on display featured large bronze insect-like creatures with spears.

“April 1984. _Analog._ Science Fiction. Science Fact.,” read Lestrade. “I know I had this one. I should’ve kept it. It’s a museum piece now. Look at that fellow,” said Lestrade, pointing to an orange tentacled creature in the background which appeared to be having its way, reproductive or comestible, with a comely breasted human figure.

“Tentacles seem to be popular,” observed Mycroft. “I suppose they always have been.”

“They have their uses,” said Lestrade before he could stop himself.

He bit his lip. Stupid, stupid, stupid!

“Oh, I’m certain of that,” replied Mycroft in a husky voice that made Lestrade turn his head.

Their eyes met.

Oh, we are flirting, are we? thought Lestrade. Hello, hello, hello. All right.

He raked his eyes up and down Mycroft. God, he loved that suit.

“A nice thin arm is like a nice thin jimmy. It can slip into all kinds of tight places.” He gave Mycroft’s belt a longer-than-necessary glance. “Unlock what needs opening.”

“That could be advantageous,” murmured Mycroft.

Lestrade wasn’t certain when they’d stop looking at art and started devouring each other with their eyes, but he wasn’t going to complain. He’d admired Mycroft Holmes from afar for a long time and more than once in that suit.

They broke the stare, and both surveyed the room.

One didn’t need telepathy to decide ‘not here.’

Mycroft moved slowly and carefully, and Lestrade followed his lead.

“A tentacle would be better than a jimmy, though,” said Lestrade under his breath “Because it would be flexible. It could move. Coil round things.”

“A good point,” said Mycroft. “I wonder how it would feel.”

They found themselves almost alone in an enormous gallery with three settees. Neither took his eyes from the paintings on the wall as they made their way around the space.

“Self-lubricating, of course,” said Lestrade. “Slick, soft, but always moving. Coiling, uncoiling, tightening, releasing. Pulsing. Responding to every rise in temperature, every fibre stiffening, engorging with blood at the touch…”

Lestrade studied the effect his words were having.

Mycroft Holmes was a picture of arousal. His cheeks were a light pink, and his eyes, from what Lestrade could see, were darkening, perhaps, already blown black.

“Without anyone the wiser,” Mycroft replied. “Shocking. Scandalous.”

The last two words sounded like ‘lovely’ and ‘marvelous.’

Lestrade took what he thought was a hint. He stepped close to Mycroft and pretended to read a plaque and said in a rough, soft voice. “Yeah, no one could tell a thing. On the outside everything’s very respectable. But underneath it all. Oof! So naughty. That tentacle never stops. Stroking. Rubbing. Nice and wet. Slipping and sliding and squeezing. So hard. And the tip can reach and tickle…”

Lestrade stepped away.

This was madness.

Mycroft was looking behind them. Lestrade followed his gaze.

Oddly enough, they were alone, all alone in a big room with a bunch of paintings.

“I confess I find myself in a _humiliating_ situation, Detective Inspector.”

Mycroft Holmes said ‘humiliating’ the way some people say ‘ice cream.”

Lestrade looked down. There was a noticeable crease in front of the handsome trousers.

“I love your suit, Mister Holmes. It is my favourite of all your suits. But I fear,” Lestrade let his voice fall to a steely rumble, “you are going to soil it horribly.”

Lestrade heard the sharp intake of breath.

“Perhaps just my pants, Detective Inspector. I should have to return home physically uncomfortable and fully aware of my shameless behaviour. How adolescent. How disgraceful. How perverse. I shall be _messy_.”

Their eyes met again.

Are we really doing this? asked Lestrade. And the wild look in Mycroft’s eyes was an unqualified ‘yes’ and ‘please.’

Lestrade took a deep breath. “If I could, I would slip my thin, bright orange tentacle right under that fine leather belt and those bespoke trousers and those no-doubt matchy-matchy pants. I’d coil my wiggly bugger round whatever gorgeous prick I found. I’d ooze slippery hot slick. And rub. And rub. And stroke and squeeze you until you were…”

“Excuse me.”

Mycroft moved clumsily to the nearest settee. He leaned over the arm, bending to pick up a discarded programme and map of the museum. He stayed in that position for a moment, but no more. He righted himself and turned.

Then he walked back to Lestrade, pink of face but even of gait.

“A souvenir,” he said, handing Lestrade the two items.

Lestrade looked around. They were still alone in the huge space.

He looked at the programme and map disbelievingly.

“Did you just…?”

“Yes.”

Lestrade looked up and stared. “You didn’t make a peep!”

Mycroft tilted his head and gave a half-shrug. “Are you interested in eighteenth century portraiture, Detective Inspector?”

Lestrade stared at the painting on the wall. “If that’s what that is, no.”

“Then perhaps we should call it an evening.” Mycroft turned away from him.

Lestrade frowned. He made a noise and touched Mycroft’s elbow.

Mycroft stopped.

“I want a real souvenir. I want proof,” said Lestrade, hardly believing his own words.

Mycroft blinked owlishly. “Proof?” he echoed.

“I want to know that what I think happened just happened.” Lestrade looked pointedly at Mycroft’s crotch.

“Physical evidence?” asked Mycroft. There was a curious teasing note in his voice.

“Yeah,” said Lestrade. “Detectives like evidence.” He smiled a wicked smile.

Mycroft returned the smile. “That can be arranged.”

“Good.” Lestrade gave a polite nod. If he’d had a hat, he would’ve tipped it. “I’ve had a wonderful evening, Mister Holmes. It was a pleasure running into you. Thank you for your assistance.”

“Not at all, Detective Inspector. I was happy to oblige.”

* * *

It was late when Lestrade left work the following day. When he reached his flat, a parcel was waiting for him.

He slit it open. It held two items: a zippered plastic bag, inside which was a pair of dark blue pants, which had, Lestrade checked, dried stains on the inside, and, also in plastic, a copy of the 1984 _Analog_ with the spear-wielding insects and the orange tentacled monster on the cover.

Lestrade smiled.


	2. The Airport

Courage, thought Mycroft for the hundred time. He checked and checked and checked and then tapped his phone.

“Hello!”

That was a good sign. A warm and slightly gruff morning voice which sounded like buttered toast.

“I didn’t wake you?”

“No, but I’m still in bed. Where are you?”

“The airport. My flight is delayed.”

“Ah, that sucks. So, you’re killing time?”

“Taking advantage of an opportunity, too.”

“Of course.” Mycroft could hear the smile, and a tiny butterfly flapped in his chest, “Hey, I enjoyed myself the other day.”

“Yes, that was why I called. I want to say how much I enjoyed our second meeting at the museum. Thank you so much for inviting me.”

“You’re welcome. I realised the, uh, next day I didn’t remember much about that exhibit, the one I was so keen on, and since it was the last day of it, I thought I’d pop round on my lunch break and, well, without a guide, who knows how much time I’d have wasted trying to find the bloody thing? I’m glad you could make time for it. I know you’re damned busy.” The Prime Minister had been accommodating. “Nice café, too.” The raspberry mousse had been excellent, but Mycroft would’ve willingly eaten a dog biscuit if it meant he could watch the Detective Inspector lick a smudge of lemon pavlova from his thumb. “And I was formerly introduced to your Missus.”

Mycroft was trying very hard not to smile. “You made a good impression on her.”

“Yeah? Hard to tell what with no head or arms. She’s a stony figure, that one.” A pause. “Listen, with the, uh, invitation, I was also hoping to show you that, uh, you know, that I am not, well, I mean to say, I am a bit of pervert, but not all the time. I mean, you can take me out in public without, you know, uh, it devolving into some kind of kinky mess. And I like you. Without, you know, the other. The other night, I wasn’t just…which is not to say I didn’t really like what happened…but it was a bit surreal. Oh, hell, I’ll stop talking.”

Mycroft exhaled.

“We are of one mind in that respect, Detective Inspector. I feel exactly as you do.”

“Oh, good. Then that’s all right.” A nice long sigh and perhaps a stretch. “So, where are you headed? Or is that top secret?”

“The Continent,” said Mycroft vaguely.

“Gone long?”

“No, I thought it would be just two days, but this delay may extend things to three.”

“So you step off the plane and go directly to meetings or something else?”

“Well, I’ve rescheduled everything for the afternoon, so I suppose I will get myself settled at my accommodations and then proceed.”

“Hmm. All right. Well, I haven’t even had my coffee yet. It’s my day off, but I suspect somehow you know that.”

Mycroft’s cheeks felt a bit warm. “It was a factor in my decision to call rather than text.”

“You prefer to call, I think I remember from someone who shan’t be named.”

“Yes.” Please don’t bring Sherlock into this, thought Mycroft, it's going so well.

“All right.” A sniff. “I’m going to ask you a question, and if it’s going where you don’t want to go, you let me know, yeah? I don’t think we need special words or anything. Your vocabulary is more than adequate.”

Mycroft’s body was already stirring, but his voice was even. “All right. What’s your question?”

“What colour is the suit you’re wearing?”

Oh, God was this really going to happen? Right here? Oh, for fuck’s sake, don’t get hard yet, you pathetic creature!

Mycroft crossed his legs and picked invisible lint from the knee of his trousers.

“Charcoal.”

“That’d be the same as dark grey?”

Mycroft could help it. He smiled. “Yes. No pattern.”

“New?”

“Oh, no.”

“It’s not the same one you wore the second time Sherlock went to rehab?”

Mycroft wasn’t often stunned, but this man, this man, _dear God_ …

“You have a remarkable memory, Detective Inspector,” he said, and he meant every word and the awe that had seeped into his tone.

“Comes with the job. And since I know your dirty little secret, I suppose it’s only fair you know mine: I like a nice suit. On someone else. Like you.”

“How convenient.” For me, added Mycroft as he silently made an appointment with his tailor for the day after his return to London.

“Can I make a mess of you, Mister Holmes? Right now?”

“Yes.”

Mycroft didn’t need to think, which was a good thing because a great deal of the blood in his brain was rushing southward.

“All right. Hold on.” There was a creak, a groan, the sliding of a wooden drawer, another creak, and the rustle of plastic. “Because if you think I’m not getting that dirty little pair of pants you sent me, well, you’re wrong. Thank you, by the way, for that and the other.”

“My pleasure.”

“Your pleasure,” he chuckled. “Just you wait. You caught me first thing in the morning on my day off, when I’m at my absolute horniest. Did you know that, too, by the way?”

“No,” said Mycroft quickly. “But I do now,” he added.

“Oh, you flirt. Just for that…”

Another sliding of a drawer. And the pop of a cap.

The pop of a cap!

“I’m going to make you as hard as I am, Mister Holmes. I’m thinking about you in that dark grey suit. Is it one that you choose when you have unpleasant tasks ahead?”

One corner of Mycroft’s mouth curled. “Something like that, I suppose. Armour for battle.”

“Hmm. And here I am in nothing but a pair of worn-out pants.”

Oh, God.

Mycroft’s bottom lip scraped his teeth, but he willed himself not to bite.

“I’d love to get under that armour of yours, Mister Holmes.”

Too late. You’re already under my skin, thought Mycroft. He looked about the largely empty corner near the gate. “I think I’m going to sit here and listen, all right?”

“Sit there and listen to me toss off and get hard and come in your pants?”

“Yes, that’s the plan.”

“You know I’ve got one hand on your pants and one hand in mine?”

Oh, fuck!

“My nose right in ‘em. Right in the mess you made. Want me to lick it?”

Mycroft could not find his voice at first, but after a deep breath, he managed.

“Yes.”

“Sounds like you’re getting hard, too.”

“That’s a gross understatement, Detective Inspector.”

A laugh. A warm, throaty laugh. A lover’s laugh.

“Why am I even wearing pants? I ought to take these off. Spread myself out for you.”

If only.

Mycroft swallowed and shifted in his seat as he listened to soft grunts and groans.

“Such a pervert!”

“I believe the phrase is ‘takes one to know one,’” said Mycroft dryly.

“If you mean ‘know’ in the Biblical sense, then yeah. Fuck, you’re really in that suit? That kick-arse-take-names suit?”

Mycroft wouldn’t have called it that before, but he damned well would now. “Yes.”

“And I’m naked, spread out like a tart, burying my face in your pretty little pants. Oh, it’s so _humiliating_ , isn’t it?”

“Yes,” said Mycroft.

Mycroft was hard. He was incredibly hard. He’d picked a quiet corner, but still, he was in public, with an erection, listening to a man he was absolutely mad about masturbating.

 _Humiliating._ Where was his control? His sense of decency? Privacy? Self-preservation?

Mycroft shifted. Squeezed. And listened.

“…weak, so weak. Oh, God. Can I suck you off? One day? Maybe? I want to be on my knees. You don’t even have to unzip, just let me put my lips to the front of your…fuckity, fuck, fuck!”

Mycroft’s body clenched, well, all except one part.

And there it was. In Mycroft’s lap. In seconds it would be a cold, revolting mess. He’d hide it as best he could, but he would carry it with him on the flight, short though it was, and then to the hotel. He’d clean himself and change, of course, but meanwhile, the reminder would be…

…wonderful.

He would post the pants, of course. The original request had surprised Mycroft, even disturbed him a bit, but upon later reflection, he had warmed to the idea. And it was another, different kind of reminder. This wasn’t just a fantasy of Mycroft’s own anymore, something he guarded in himself; it was a game for two. And that meant his partner in the game had his own fantasies. Mycroft could give as well as receive. Of course, he could. He was dying to do whatever the beautiful man on the other end of the line wanted of him. Whatever.

Mycroft listened as ragged breathing became smoother, more even. The thought of the unspoken question being voiced made him cringe, so he preemptively said,

“That achieved the anticipated results, Detective Inspector. Congratulations.”

Laughter. Deep, rumbly laughter.

Mycroft thought of raspberry mousse and lemon pavlova and smiled.

“You’re a naughty sod, Mister Holmes.”

“As are you, Detective Inspector.”

“Yeah. Christ, when you start the day like this, what the fuck else are you supposed to do?”

“I’m afraid I’m going to catch my flight.”

“Oh, yeah, yeah. So, I mean, it was…ok?”

That this wonderful man could feel any insecurity at all baffled Mycroft.

“It was,” Mycroft lowered his voice, “ _exquisite_.”

“Ho, ho! Yeah? All right.” He had to be grinning wickedly. Mycroft heard the cheeky smile. “Well, bon voyage!”

“Thank you. Enjoy your day.”


	3. The Picnic

“This is a date, right?”

In hindsight, Lestrade decided he should’ve probably waited until Mycroft was finished chewing and swallowing before he popped that delicate question.

But Mycroft was Mycroft and he recovered quickly.

“It’s a picnic.”

Yes, there was the hamper, the bottle of wine, the chequered blanket, the sunny day, the green grass, the view of the river, the families and couples in similar tableaus scattered about. There was no doubt in Lestrade’s mind that they were on a picnic, and a lovely picnic at that, but was it a date?

“Right,” he said. “Picnic.”

The crux of the matter was that Mycroft Holmes looked positively edible, but if the picnic were, in fact, also a date, Lestrade would restrain himself until they’d finished feasting and then he would take Mycroft somewhere private where the latter could be quickly but carefully divested of that sinfully handsome tan linen suit and properly ravished. If it weren’t a date, well, Lestrade might not have to wait that long to show the depth of his appreciation for Mycroft’s most recent sartorial choice. They were out of earshot of everyone, and there was at least one naughty thing he knew they could get up to right then.

“What would you call last Wednesday?” asked Mycroft.

They’d gone together to a film of Lestrade’s choosing. It had been a matinee in the middle of the week. They’d greatly enjoyed each other’s company, but, as far as Lestrade judged, there was nothing particularly romantic about it. No flirting, no looks, not so much as a good-bye peck on the cheek!

Not that Lestrade was disappointed, but he really wanted to kiss Mycroft. Hard. Especially in that suit.

“A film,” said Lestrade with a quirk of his lips. “Which I enjoyed more than you did. Your choice next time.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow which could’ve meant anything or nothing. By way of reply, he pushed a plastic container towards Lestrade which contained a chocolate tray bake that Mycroft claimed to have baked himself. Lestrade was in danger of eating the whole blasted lot if he weren’t careful. For lack of anything better to do, he shoved one in his mouth and chewed.

They dropped the subject and went back to chatting and nibbling and people-watching until Mycroft, who was leaning back on his elbows, said in a low tone, without taking his eyes off the punters on the river,

“Date or not, I wouldn’t mind if you helped me break this new suit in. Only if you’re keen, of course. If not, I will enjoy today just the same. I hope you know that.”

Lestrade turned his head and saw that Mycroft had, too, and was looking squarely at him. His face was serious, earnest.

“I want to devour you,” said Lestrade. “Just like those.” He nodded at the plastic container which now held only two squares.

“Triple chocolate brownies,” said Mycroft.

“Fuck yes.”

Mycroft smiled and rolled on his side. “Say it again. Please.”

“I want to devour you, _Mycroft_.”

“Funny how I want the same thing, _Gregory_.”

They’d finally got to first names on the drive. Lestrade definitely couldn’t handle anymore Detective Inspector or Mister Holmes. ‘Gregory’ was a bit formal, but, hey, in that suit, Mycroft could have asked to call Lestrade anything he’d liked.

“How?” pressed Lestrade. He leaned back and twisted toward Mycroft. “Suck you off? Or would you rather just hands?”

“Both hold appeal.”

“They’ll hold your cock, too, if you want them to. Over and over. And over and over.”

“Gregory.”

Now that Lestrade was looking at Mycroft directly and intently, he could see the subtle signs of arousal much better. You’d have to be looking for them and looking closely. Mycroft’s eyes, his expression, the colour of his face and neck, the way he held himself, what he did with his hands. Every change was minute, but it was there.

It was, Lestrade considered, a rather fascinating study, really, but he also felt a disclaimer was in order.

“I have to confess I’m a bit rusty on anyone’s equipment but my own, but…”

“I am certain you will manage admirably when the moment arrives.”

“You’ll stay in the suit, yeah? Let me play a bit? Touch it while I touch you?’

“Of course,” said Mycroft. He was looking at the river now. “I quite fancy your face pressed…”

“…to the front of your pants?” Lestrade, too, decided to stare at the water and the boats and the other picnickers, anyone but his date.

It was a date, he decided, but a naughty, naughty, naughty one.

“Yes,” said Mycroft. “Your face there.”

“You’ve spoiled me for choice. I’ve got two pair now. And a nice bottle of wine. Thank you for that, by the way.”

“With them, do you…?”

“Oh, yes. But one at a time.”

“That’s what I imagine. I think of you having them. Touching them. Often?”

“Well,” Lestrade tilted his head, “I am a civil servant. Can’t spend my whole day tossing off to another man’s dirty pants.”

Lestrade heard a giggle, and it was the loveliest thing he’d heard in a long time.

Mycroft snorted, then coughed. “I would hate to think that I’d done a service to the criminal classes of London by distracting you from your public duties.”

“Just so. No, I ration myself. Twice a week.” Lestrade ate the next-to-last brownie.

“Really?”

“Yeah.” Lestrade eyed Mycroft’s crotch. “But if I had another pair, I could make it three.” Lestrade rolled even further towards Mycroft and dropped his voice. “Do you fuck, My?”

Mycroft’s eyes widened in such a way that Lestrade knew his words had gone straight to the other man’s groin.

“On rare occasion. But if you, that is, my own imaginings tend to, uh, what I’m trying to say is…”

“Could I fuck you, My?”

“Oh, God, yes, please.”

“Do you have an office in your home? Or a study? Or…?”

“I’ve a library.”

“Of course, you do. And it’s got a piece of furniture I could bend you over?”

“Yes!” said Mycroft in a soft but desperate whisper.

“Stiff?”

“Getting there.”

Lestrade didn’t take his eyes from Mycroft’s. “Will you be stiff when I bend you over that desk and fuck you, My?”

“Yes.”

“Will you make noise? Moan? Grunt? Say my name?”

“Perhaps not so much the first time, but…”

“Once we’ve gotten accustomed to each other?”

“Yes.”

Lovers. They were going to be lovers. All of sudden, Lestrade didn’t want to wait a minute more.

“I don’t know if I’m going to last that long, My. You look so good. Good enough to eat.” He took the last brownie. “I might have to suck you off in the car just to make to your house so I can…”

Lestrade stopped at a noise so faint that no one but he could’ve heard it. He ate the brownie and watched.

Mycroft had rolled almost onto his stomach, and now he rolled back.

“Look at you,” said Lestrade gently. This was Mycroft’s version of afterglow. It was just as subtle as his arousal and, in Lestrade’s eyes, just as beautiful and precious.

“A mess,” agreed Mycroft, looking down at his crotch. “Gregory, I know it’s sophomoric and trite and I don’t begrudge you any incredulity, but this, _this_ , really isn’t something I’ve ever indulged in before…”

“I didn’t even know I liked it, Mycroft, until that night at the museum but I do and so do you, and so, Gold help us, there it is. But I also know, Mycroft, I want to touch you, not just talk about touching you. I don’t just want to make a mess of you in public, I want you to make a mess of me, too, but, you know, behind closed doors. Along with spending time together. Can we do that? Is that something you want?”

“Yes! Let’s get, well, not cleaned up precisely but packed up, and we can go back to my place. If you’d like.”

“Yeah, I’d like that. Uh, sorry I ate all the brownies.”

“Oh, goodness, I’m flattered. I’ll make you more for breakfast.”

Lestrade grinned, and then…

BEEP-beep-BEEP!

followed by

buzz-BUZZ-buzz!

Each reached for his mobiles.

“It’s John. That means that Sherlock…”

“…has been kidnapped,” finished Lestrade reading the screen of his mobile. He sighed and tapped and then began to quickly store everything in the hamper. “Oh!” he said with a deep frown as Mycroft got to his feet.

“Don’t worry,” said Mycroft, waving at his own trousers. “I have a change of clothes in the car.”

“Really? You were…”

“…prepared for any eventuality,” said Mycroft coolly as he put his mobile to his ear. “John, Lestrade and I are on our way. Now what’s the situation?”

It would be thirty-six long hours before Sherlock Holmes, slightly dehydrated, extremely annoyed, but otherwise unharmed, would be rescued from captivity and restored to Baker Street. After another two hours of paperwork, Lestrade was able to return to his flat.

He dropped the bag he’d brought to the picnic onto the sofa where it would stay for another ten hours.

When Lestrade finally got around to unpacking the bag, he would discover a beige-coloured pair of pants neatly rolled in a plastic container which smelled of chocolate baked goods.

“Mycroft Holmes you are a top shelf pervert. Thank God, I am, too.,” he said with a chuckle and brought the bundle to his nose for a sniff. “Yep. Still edible.” He sighed. “When am I ever going to get to kiss you, gorgeous?”


	4. The Theatre

“Why don’t you invite your nice detective inspector over for dinner on Sunday?”

Mycroft believed that his circle of hell couldn’t get hotter. His mother’s words proved him wrong.

“You’ve been talking to Sherlock.”

“Is it unusual for a mother to speak with her offspring?”

“He’s not ‘my’ detective inspector, Mother, and we’re hardly on those terms.”

“Oh.”

There were volumes left unspoken in that ‘Oh’ and Mycroft didn’t want to discuss a word of it!

It had been more than a fortnight since the picnic. The longer Mycroft went without anything more substantial than an exchange of polite texts as to each other’s wellbeing and complaints about the hellishness of their work schedules, the more he wanted to scream. Or start a war.

And, then, on the first afternoon that both he and Gregory had been free, Mycroft’s father had to go and strain his back, thus, at the last moment, depriving his mother of her escort to the theatre.

And so, here Mycroft was, waiting for the show to begin.

“Why didn’t you ask him to join us? That seat’s not even taken. He could’ve come to dinner after the show.”

That was a punishment Mycroft was not prepared to inflict on his would-be lover.

Were they lovers? It was difficult to say. They wanted to be lovers, but Mycroft ever since events had preempted the happy conclusion to the picnic, he’d had an irrational fear that something would ruin it.

That he, somehow, would ruin it.

“I believe he is keenly interested in a sporting event which is taking place at this moment.”

What sport Mycroft couldn’t remember.

His mother huffed. “I’m not entirely convinced your father isn’t malingering for the same reason.”

The lights dimmed, and Mycroft prepared to suffer.

* * *

“Would you like anything, Mother?”

“No, thank you. Now don’t run off, Mycroft. I want to talk to you about Wednesday.”

Wednesday? Oh, yes. The service.

“I wouldn’t dream of running off, Mother.”

As Mycroft tapped his mobile, he wandered to an area of box seats he knew to be under renovation. He’d stepped past the cordons and slipped unobserved into a section of thick, heavy curtain by the time he heard Gregory’s voice.

He didn’t even say ‘hello.’ Neither of them did.

“If you don’t want this, or something goes wrong, you say, ‘I’ve got to go’ and ring off, yeah? No hard feelings.”

Oh, that voice!

Command, pure command.

“All right. Go ahead.”

“I’m already hard, luv. I’ve been sniffing your sweet little picnic drawers and playing with myself, just waiting for your call. I know you’re miserable, and I want to put you out of that, yeah? I want to put my mouth on you, drive you mad, swallow you down, and take it all, every drop of that misery. Make you feel so good, luv. Turn off that big brain of yours, and you could just float, knowing I’ve got you.”

Oh, God. It was like falling down a well.

And ‘luv.’ He’d said ‘luv,’ hadn’t he?

Term of endearment. _His_ term of endearment. Like _My_. No one called Mycroft that.

Mycroft made an undignified noise. He realised when his nose touched the heavy velvet that he was gripping the curtain tightly. He stared at his hand, trying to will it to relax, but then the voice on the line asked,

“Getting there already?”

“Yes.”

And Mycroft was. It was a becoming a dangerous Pavlovian response to a certain timbre of Gregory’s voice.

“Mycroft, I’ve been thinking getting hard thinking about the picnic, laying you out on that blanket…”

Oh, God. Mycroft had, too. The picnic had been so lovely. The way Gregory had been lying on the grass, Mycroft had caught just a peek of his chest hair, but the urge to reach out and touch to rub his hand in it, to kiss it, to pull it, to fuck himself raw on it…

“…if I held you down and made you take it…”

“Fuck!” Mycroft breathed. He was drunk.

“…good. That’s good.” Mycroft heard hat smile in Gregory’s tone that never ceased to charm. “I’m rolling my hips, My, and fucking my hand, but Christ, I want to be in your mouth. Or your arse. Christ, fuck your mouth a bit and then turn you over and mount you and just take what I need, right there on the blanket, with the whole world watching and those gorgeous trousers shoved down ‘round your knees…”

Mycroft pinched his eyes shut. The image was so vivid, and his body was in revolt.

“…it’d be so _humiliating_. Rutting like animals. In open air. God, but I want it, My. I’m aching for you, luv. I want too much at once. I want to be on my knees. I want to have you under me. I want your dirty little pants. Greedy. I’m such a fucking perv.”

Mycroft was close. So close.

“Listen, My. Are you listening?”

“Mmfgh.”

“Your hand is my hand. Drop your hand to your trousers and just lightly place it where you need it. No rubbing, no grabbing, just hold it. Feel the warm of my hand, of my mouth, of my body on yours.”

“I can’t…”

“Now, My.” Oh, God. “Hand. Drop. Down, down, down.”

Mycroft’s fingers uncurled from the curtain, and, as if it were detached from his body, Mycroft watched his hand fall slowly down until…

“I’m touching you, luv. Got you in the palm of my hand…oh, God, come for me, baby, please, please…”

The violent jerk into Mycroft’s own palm shattered his stupor. He heard Gregory’s ragged breath and then a rumbly oath.

“Well, that’s a fucking mess.”

Mycroft couldn’t have said it better himself. Then he heard the ding-dong-ding in the lobby.

Like Cinderella, he thought. “I’ve got to go.”

“Okay?”

“Wonderful.”

Mycroft rang off and took a few deep breaths.

* * *

“There you are,” said his mother. “I was going to send out a search party.”

“I promised.”

“Are you okay, dear?”

He looked into her eyes and opted for the truth. “I miss him.”

“Oh, Mycroft.”

He shrugged, and the lights dimmed.

But Mycroft wasn’t in hell anymore. He welcomed the darkness and the isolation of the theatre. He could think about Gregory and float in a kind of bliss. Every time he shifted in his seat, he felt the telltale discomfort and smiled to himself.

* * *

Mycroft supposed one could get used to anything, even dropping one’s soiled undergarments in the post. He added the programme, which screamed CATS! the REVIVAL! from its colourful cover, to the envelope before sealing the latter tight.


	5. The Church

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Warning:** This is where they have a miscommunication. If you're the kind of reader who doesn't like to have bad things happen to your pairings, this isn't the chapter for you. Everything will be resolved in the next chapter. They stew in their bone-headed misery for off-page 3 days before reconciliation.

Lestrade checked the address Mycroft had texted him twice before he set out. If the address was correct, well, it was definitely taking their game to kinkier level.

But, Lestrade reconsidered, he himself had done something that was also in the category of wholly unchartered and kinkier territory, and perhaps this was an opportunity to pleasantly surprise Mycroft.

Or even blow his mind. The prospect of that made Lestrade very happy.

If Mycroft was where he said he was. If Lestrade hadn’t got the wrong message.

Lestrade found Mycroft in an empty side chapel sitting in the centre of one of the short pews wearing a beautiful black suit. He slipped in the pew behind Mycroft and settled just to the side of Mycroft’s left shoulder.

Lestrade looked at the rows of little candles and then at the statue. He was very glad that it was some hermit-looking saint he didn’t readily recognise, and not, well, Jesus or the Virgin Mary. Especially the latter. Lestrade was certain he couldn’t go through with anything kinky with those pitying maternal eyes gazing down upon him.

All right, Fancy Pants, thought Lestrade. You got me here. Show time!

Mycroft turned his head.

Lestrade could see he had his mobile surreptitiously hidden in hand.

That was very good.

Their eyes met.

God, My was gorgeous. And Lestrade was aching to touch him. After the theatre call, Lestrade had been called in on a case less than an hour after he’d cleaned the spunk off his sofa. It seemed like fate did not want Mycroft and him to do anything more than tease each other to damnation.

Well, fuck fate.

They stared at each other, and though neither of them was a mind reader, Lestrade tried to send this message by telepathy:

After this, we are going somewhere. Even if we have to fuck in your posh hired car, we’re going to do it. We’re going to kiss first, though, for about three days, and then fuck for three more, and then…

And damn it all, the man _was_ a mind reader because Lestrade could see Mycroft’s eyes dilating and his cheeks turn ever so pink.

He watched Mycroft lick his lips. He watched Mycroft’s eyes dart about them.

Haven’t scoped a place out yet? thought Lestrade. Oh, you’re slipping.

Just then a little old lady with a shopping bag and a head scarf entered and made her way to the candles.

They both reacted like chastened schoolboys. Mycroft turned back around quickly and Lestrade imitated Mycroft’s prayerful slump forward and bowed head.

Mycroft’s hands were folded on the pew in front of him. Lestrade’s were secretly reaching for his mobile.

He’d had the thing set up, waiting for the right moment to send.

This was it.

Lestrade kept his attention trained on Mycroft’s shoulders, waiting for the jolt of realisation.

And when it came it was sweet.

Now the question was: would he watch it here?

Or just how kinky are you, you gorgeous perv? Or how bad do you want your fix? As bad as I want to give it to you, I bet.

The surge of lust and power made Lestrade hot under the collar. This must be what demons felt like. Temptation was a wicked game.

Of course, Mycroft might choose to watch it later, somewhere else. That was more than all right.

The old lady had finished her devotions and was shuffling out of the chapel.

And Mycroft bowed his head a bit deeper.

Oh, you pervy, pervy beast. You’re going to do it.

Lestrade was glad that he’d not recorded it with any sound. He’d done it with the idea that Mycroft might watch it at work. Or on a flight. Or something.

Lestrade shook his head. He’d never so much as thought about sending anyone a photo of his penis and he’d just sent the man of his dreams a full two minutes of him masturbating!

And said man was watching it! In a church!

And he was going to come from it. He was going to come right then. Of that, Lestrade was certain.

The two minutes passed very slowly and very silently.

Lestrade forgot to think. Or breathe.

He’s watching me, he thought, watching my fist and cock and getting hard. No face, not even much of body, really. But all me. And a bit of a pair of filthy brown pants. He had done it first thing that very morning when he’d been at his most shameless.

After a short eternity, Mycroft shifted where he sat and crossed his legs and shifted once more.

He’s coming, thought Lestrade. Right. Now.

Then Mycroft turned his head, and the expression on his face was everything.

Lestrade grinned wickedly.

I did it. I fucking blew his mind.

“Mister Holmes? Thank goodness, you’re still here. I thought you’d left already.”

Holy shit! Oh, fuck, oh, fuck, oh, fuck…

“Yes, Father?”

How could he sound so normal? Lestrade wanted to die.

“Here is your late uncle’s breviary. It was left on the lectern. It was a beautiful reading, by the way.”

“Thank you, Father.”

The priest gave Lestrade a nod, and Lestrade became an instant believer in the concept of spontaneous combustion. But in between his prayers for an immediate demise, a phrase crept in.

… _late uncle_ …

Lestrade stared at Mycroft’s shoulders.

… _the nice black suit_ …

Oh, fuck, oh, fuck, oh, fuck…

Lestrade’s mouth filled with saliva. His world tilted sideways. He had the sudden realisation he was going to be sick. He had to get out of there.

Lestrade pushed himself to standing. Before his eyes, Mycroft’s face went positively ashen, like the crumbling face of a poor Greek just cursed by a god.

Lestrade was certain he was going to vomit.

Right there. On this man. In the nice black suit. In a church.

In a church!

_At his uncle’s funeral!_

“I have to go,” Lestrade mumbled before somehow hauling his wretched carcass out to the street.


	6. The Make-Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to all my gentle readers. I hope you enjoy the ending.

**Five minutes. Please. GL**

It took Mycroft ten seconds to make his decision. He would not do this over the phone, he would do it face-to-face. He would take whatever abuse, polite or otherwise, Gregory wished to hurl at him, and that would be that. He replied with an address and an hour which was forty-five minutes into the future. He received a curt confirmatory reply almost instantly.

Mycroft rose to his feet and left the Diogenes Club for home.

It was rather strange to be going home while it was still daylight. For the past three days, Mycroft had divided his waking hours between work and club. He didn’t feel like eating, and he tried not to sleep. He also tried not to think of Gregory’s face contorted with revulsion. Mycroft felt ill most of the time.

Gregory was gone, and the past few weeks had been nothing more than a fever dream. That Mycroft had retrieved a certain pair of black silk pants from the bin in which he himself had placed them twice in the last three days only supported the fact. It had been a pathetic form of madness. But there was no reason to persist in it.

Mycroft arrived at his home and went up to wash his face and brush his hair. He looked at himself in the mirror.

And then he remembered the suit.

* * *

While he’d changed his clothes, Mycroft considered once again what he might say when Gregory arrived.

The pants.

There was a part of Mycroft that wanted to throw himself upon Gregory’s mercy and beg him to get rid of the four pairs of pants, but whenever Mycroft thought of it, he was immediately struck by the thought of Gregory asking him to get rid of the, uh, message. And that Mycroft did not want to do at all. He wanted to keep that forever. And ever and ever. If Gregory asked him to delete it, of course, he would, but…

The doorbell rang.

“Hello.”

God, he looked awful. Mycroft’s heart ached.

“Hello. Thank you for making time on such short notice.”

Those soft brown eyes shouldn’t hurt so much.

Oh, dear God.

“Not at all. Please come in.”

“Your house?” Gregory took a couple of tentative steps inside and looked about.

“Yes. Welcome.” Mycroft closed the door and raised an ushering arm. “We can go into the…”

“No, if it’s all the same…”

Gregory wanted to say his peace and leave. Of course. Completely understandable. The knot in Mycroft’s stomach twisted tighter.

“…Mycroft, all I want to say is that I’m sorry and I’m sorry and I’m sorry.”

The words came tumbling out.

Mycroft opened his mouth, but there was no sound.

He didn’t understand, which was a novelty for him.

“Gregory…?”

“Let me finish, please.”

Please? Mycroft would let him do whatever he wanted. Didn’t he know that?

“I’m sorry that I thought it was part of our game. That I didn’t _observe_ you were in _bloody mourning_ and that I,” he cringed, “sexted you in the middle of a funeral!” He sighed. “I’m also sorry that I ran out like that and that I haven’t contacted you in three days. I was feeling ill and ashamed and confused and hypocritical and, just, dirty. Not the good kind of dirty. The bad kind. And, you know, I’m new at this, but I feel some responsibility in this game, and I let you down. Hard. That’s all I’m going to say. Good night. Thank you for listening.”

“Wait. You don’t hate me?”

“Hate you?! It’s you who are hating me!” His brow furrowed. “Right?”

Not right. Not right at all!

Mycroft exploded with his own torrent, which, upon later reflection, didn’t sound nearly as eloquent or coherent as he would’ve wished.

“But I didn’t tell you! I could’ve stopped you! I could’ve not watched what you sent. I could’ve told you everything, Gregory. It’s my fault! I shouldn’t have deceived you. Most of all I shouldn’t have come in my bloody pants! I knew the assumption you had made, and I just let it happen. I just played the game. I missed you. I wanted some time with you. But that’s not it. I also adore what you do to me. I crave it. I was…weak. I’m sorry for that. And for not going after you when you left. And for not contacting you. Your face. You looked, oh God, I knew I had done a very bad thing. And not good bad. Bad bad. I’d hurt you, betrayed you, made you sick, none of which I ever want to do.”

“My, tell me this. Did you text me in the first place because you wanted a friend? Because of the funeral?”

“For the record, it was a memorial service. I loved Uncle Rudy, but he died ten years ago. And the service itself was long over when I texted you. I knew I was somewhat close to your flat, and mostly I just wanted to see if you were free and wanted to spend some time together. My, uh, mother told me that I didn’t have to go to the dinner after the service. She was very insistent that I ‘go see about my young man.’”

Mycroft wrinkled his nose and rolled his eyes, but when he looked at Gregory, he saw that the other’s face had softened.

Mycroft’s heart lifted. It might be okay.

“You wanted a date.” Lestrade smirked. “And I ended up sexting you right under the nose of Saint…”

“Anastasia the Patrician.”

Gregory frowned. “Anastasia? Really?”

“The patron saint of crossdressers.”

“Oh! Oh?”

“Uncle Rudy.”

“Oh.”

“That’s another conversation.”

“I bet. So, back to us, you forgive me?”

“Of course. And you forgive me?”

“Yeah, that’s easy. Mycroft, I know three things. One, I love you.”

Mycroft thought he might faint.

“Two, we have got to talk more to each other. About what we’re expecting. About what we want to happen and not happen. No mind reading. I don’t want to be miserable like I have been for the past three days. Not if it can be avoided.”

“I agree. Would this be a good time to say I think I might faint from Number One?”

It was a good time to say it because it resulted in Gregory taking Mycroft into his arms but still holding Mycroft far enough away so that he could look Mycroft in the eye when he said,

“And, three,” he quirked a smile, “that is, by far, the ugliest suit you own.”

* * *

This was kissing Mycroft Holmes. Finally.

Lestrade had Mycroft pressed tight to the wall beside the front door. The kiss seemed to go on for ages, with teeth and tongue and lips, cycling through ‘I’m sorry’ to ‘I love you’ to ‘let’s fuck’ and back

Mycroft’s arms were curled round Lestrade’s neck, and Lestrade was cradling Mycroft’s jaw in both hands, steadying himself, wanting to get it right and right and right.

When the kiss broke, Mycroft slumped a little, Lestrade slipped a steadying arm around Mycroft’s waist.

He looked at Mycroft’s face, so delightfully wrecked, and then at Mycroft’s suit jacket.

In the light of the entrance, the fabric appeared almost orange.

“It was a mistake of the cleaners,” expected Mycroft. “I got this. Someone else must’ve got my seersucker.”

“You never said anything.”

“I was busy. It fit. And I thought having a really ugly suit might be useful. I didn’t much like the seersucker.”

Lestrade chuckled. “I love how your mind works.”

“It doesn’t seem to work much when you’re around, Gregory.”

“Nonsense.” Lestrade kissed him. “We’re learning each other. Making mistakes. Seeing what feels right. Like this.”

Lestrade kissed one side of Mycroft’s neck and slid the tip of his tongue along the skin just above Mycroft’s shirt collar. “How’s that feel?”

Mycroft’s hum was almost a purr. “More, please.” His hands fell from Lestrade’s neck to his shoulder to his back and lower.

Lestrade put one hand on the wall and leaned even closer, the better to grind against Mycroft while Mycroft gripped his arse.

Mycroft’s breath hitched, soft and faint but lovely.

Lestrade shifted, stepping his legs slightly more apart. “Yeah?” He kissed the side of Mycroft’s face, from temple to jawline. He rolled his hips a bit.

“Oh, Gregory.”

“You’re not going to come in your pants tonight, Mycroft.”

“No,” agreed Mycroft. “Mostly because I’m not wearing any.”

Lestrade froze. Then he laughed. “Why?” He slid a hand between them and felt the front of Mycroft’s trousers.

“I don’t know. It made sense at the time. I changed just before you arrived. I thought you were going to—”

Lestrade silenced him with a long, hard kiss. “Forget what you thought. Didn’t happen. But this,” he gripped Mycroft’s bulge through the wool, “is definitely happening.”

“I’m very responsive. To you.”

Lestrade was rubbing Mycroft’s cock now. It felt wonderful.

“I know. That’s why I can fuck you in a church without even touching you.”

Mycroft snorted. “Your dirty little movie helped.”

“Like that?”

“Oh, Gregory, I think you know that’s an understatement. I’ve never…”

“Me neither but wanking for you was easy. The things I want to do, My.” He nuzzled Mycroft’s hair.

“Do them.”

Lestrade smiled, but he had scars from the past three days’ misery. “I want to get to my knees and suck you off.”

“Yes! But,” Mycroft licked his lips and Lestrade bit at his mouth, “after, may I show you the library?”

Lestrade was already unbuckling Mycroft’s belt. He stopped. “You want me to bend you over…?”

“An antique armchair.”

“I can do that. I would love to do that.” Lestrade finished with the belt and started with the button.

“I’ve pants.”

Lestrade frowned. “I thought you said…”

Mycroft looked at him through beautiful, debauched, half-lidded, bedroom eyes. “Dirty ones.”

“Oh, God. From the church?”

Mycroft nodded. “Black silk boxers. I binned them twice. And rescued them from the bin twice. I couldn’t get rid of them.”

“Good. I’m glad. I want them, My. Not now, but I want them.” Lestrade was very careful with the zipper. His mouth watered at the sight of Mycroft’s cock. “But no more. I think a set of five is perfect, don’t you?” He gently freed Mycroft’s erection.

Mycroft gurgled.

“If you’re quiet, Mycroft, that’s fine. But, you know, if you want to scream the house down, that’ll be great, too. I’d love to hear you.” He kissed Mycroft’s cheek. “You can fuck my mouth, too. Just let me know when you’re close. That’s a surprise I don’t really like.”

Mycroft whimpered and lolled his head against the wall as Lestrade got to his knees, pulling Mycroft’s trousers lower as he sank.

Lestrade licked a wide stripe from base to cockhead. Then he licked all about the hairy base and once more up the shaft to the head. Then he began, bit by bit, to take Mycroft’s cock into his mouth.

“Gregory.”

Lestrade experimented, teasing and twirling his tongue, harder, then softer sucking, bobbing, even the tiniest scrape of teeth. The last was the biggest surprise.

“Oh, fuck, yes!” Mycroft’s voice was higher than Lestrade had ever heard it, and he felt, for the first time, hands on the back of his head. Mycroft’s thighs began to move, his body began to sway off the wall, Lestrade slowly ceded control of the rhythm and depth.

Faster. Deeper.

“Oh, fuck, Gregory, your mouth. I’m close. Close!”

Beneath his fingers, Lestrade felt the muscles of Mycroft’s buttocks tighten.

Then the release came. Without a noise.

Lestrade pulled off with a quiet slurp.

“Feel free to spit on the suit,” panted Mycroft.

This made Lestrade laugh, which made him choke on the bitter mess in his mouth. “Too late,” he garbled. “But I’ll remember for next time.” He wiped his lips.

Then he sat back on his heels, looked up at Mycroft, and smiled.

Mycroft’s eyes shone. “I love you, Gregory.”

* * *

“This is the library. Wait just a moment.”

Lestrade gave a long whistle as he took in the shelves and the books and the furniture. Old. Expensive. Leather and brass. Like something out of another time. When Mycroft returned carrying lube, a bottle of water, and flannels, Lestrade said,

“Are you certain you don’t have a body here? And a little old lady popping in to help me solve the case?”

Mycroft smiled. “Would you trade Sherlock for Agatha Christie’s Miss Marple?”

“In a heartbeat and twice on Sunday. But let’s not talk about your brother.”

“Capital idea. What shall we talk about?”

Lestrade eyed the chairs. He nodded at one.

“Your instincts are very good.” Mycroft inclined his head coyly and deposited his items on a small round table which he rolled closer to the chair.

Lestrade stepped behind Mycroft and rested his hands on Mycroft’s shoulders.

“Let’s talk about what an absolute slut you are for my cock.”

“Oh, Gregory. I’d love to discuss that. In depth.”

“No tie. Loosen that collar. Undo that belt. Drop your trousers. Then you show me what you want.”

They moved to one side of the armchair, and soon Mycroft’s bare bottom was pressed against Lestrade’s still-clad crotch.

Lestrade lifted Mycroft’s shirttails and ogled.

“Please, Gregory.”

“Please what?”

“Fuck me.”

“Where? Show me.”

Mycroft reached back and spread his buttocks. “Fuck me here, put your thick cock in my tight hole, make me scream. I need it.”

“You’d take it anywhere, wouldn’t you? Museum, airport, park, theatre, even church. You depraved creature.”

Mycroft wobbled and reached for the chair again.

“Yes, it’s so _humiliating_.”

That was Lestrade’s cue. “I’m going to get you ready. No way a tight little hole like yours is going to take this without some stretching.” Lestrade thrust against Mycroft, letting him feel the evidence of his arousal. He pulled back and squeezed Mycroft’s are. Then he reached for the lube and popped the cap.

He heard Mycroft’s ‘oh’ at the noise, so he made certain the bottle made a loud squishing sound.

“Gregory.”

Mycroft bent forward. Lestrade dug between Mycroft’s cheeks and began to tease his rim with one finger.

“More, Gregory, please.”

Lestrade sank his finger deeper. He schooled his voice to a low, menacing growl.

“I’m going to fuck you so hard you’re not going to be able to—”

There was the loud rumbling of a hungry stomach.

Lestrade dissolved into laughter. So did Mycroft.

“I’m sorry, luv,” said Lestrade, but he kept working his finger inside Mycroft, adding a second digit to the first. “Lunch was a long time ago.”

“Would you like to stay for dinner?” asked Mycroft politely. “I mean, after…”

“Yeah, that’d be nice.”

“Breakfast, too?” added Mycroft eagerly.

Lestrade smiled. “Tomorrow’s Sunday. I’m off. So, yeah. Breakfast would be good, too. I have a feeling I’m going to be knackered tonight, though.”

“It’s been a long three days,” agreed Mycroft.

“But when I wake up…oh, baby…”

“Oof! I want to be on the receiving end of that. Now and tomorrow and, oh, oh,” Lestrade pulled his fingers out, added lube, and pushed them right back in, “whenever else you want me.”

“Because?”

“Because I’m a slut for your cock.” Mycroft wiggled his arse. “And I’ve got a dirty pair of pants upstairs to prove it.”

“Shit.” Lestrade stopped thrusting his fingers. He pulled them out of Mycroft and wiped them on a flannel. Then he hurriedly unfastened his own trousers and pushed them and his pants down. He gave cock a few slicked strokes.

He realised Mycroft had turned his head and was watching when he heard,

“Next time that’s my job.”

Lestrade grinned and lined his cockhead up with Mycroft’s entrance. “Next time you’ll be naked. So will I.”

“In a bed?”

“I’m betting you have a very big bed, Mycroft Holmes.”

“In which I will demand a live performance of my, ah, recorded one.”

“I don’t think greedy cocksluts are in positions to demand anything unless they beg.”

“Oh, Gregory, fuck me! Please, I need it.”

Lestrade sank his cock into Mycroft slowly but deliberately, stopping to let Mycroft adjust.

“It takes my breath away. The gorgeous British government, dropping trou and begging like a tart. You feel so good, My. So tight.”

“As I’ve said before, I occupy a minor pos—”

“Oh, you haven’t felt a minor position yet, princess. You’re still standing. Sort of. When I get you in that big bed and put my full weight on you and fuck you raw, then you’ll know what a minor position is. But let’s not talk about breakfast before dinner. Or snack!” He chuckled.

“Gregory!”

Amazingly, Mycroft had kept his dress shirt and suit jacket on, so Lestrade had to slip his hands down and under to caress skin and grab hips.

“I’m going to take what I need, luv.”

“Oh, God, yes.”

Lestrade began to thrust. Mycroft continued to moan softly.

Lestrade sped up. “Not hurting you?”

“No.”

“Look at you, you wanton little thing. Oh, My. Fuckity, fuck, fuck. I’m going to make a mess of you, My.”

“Do it!”

It took all of Lestrade’s concentration to pull out of Mycroft at the last minute and shove him hard in the middle of his back.

Mycroft made a surprised noise and fell forward, flailing.

Then, with a fist gripped round his cock as if it were a hose, Lestrade came all over the back of the hideous almost-orange jacket.

“That’s _humiliating_ ,” he breathed before quickly ripping the jacket off of Mycroft and throwing it on the seat of the chair in front of them.

Then in a flash, Lestrade realised Mycroft was hard again. He pressed his body to Mycroft’s and jerked him off with a few rough strokes.

“There,” he said when Mycroft’s come had joined his own on the back of the suit jacket.

“What a mess we make,” murmured Mycroft. He turned his head.

Lestrade grunted and kissed him hard. “Together.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
